Today’s blog might just be one of my favorites, although I have yet to write it, which explains why I say might just be instead of is. What excites me so is the opportunity to say/write the word ‘didgeridoo’.
I want to pause for a second. Reading over the beginning of this particular piece, it has become apparent that I am reading one certain blog a bit too often, a blog belonging to Ted Nixon and his fugly udder Ned. The voice inside my head sounds exactly the same as when I read his blog, a bit of a nasal upper register lisp. If you see his blog, you will know exactly what I mean. (oh great, I just hacked and spewed milk on my computer screen — probably because I said fugly udder)
Back to my blog. The didgeridoo one.
My brother, Mark, is a man of many talents, a renaissance man of sorts. He looks smart. He is smart. He holds more than one college degree (more than one means several) and speaks several languages. He has a didgeridoo and his wife is proud of it. So is he, so much so that he is inclined to show it off. Not every man can do that.
I had to say that. It sounds dirty. You can’t take the teenager out of the man. Or is that supposed to be you can’t take the boy out of the man? Either way, I have proved once again my sophomoric tendency.
Mark is holding his didgeridoo in the picture. It’s longgggggggg and hhhhhard. Wood. Eucalyptus, as a matter of fact. Some poor koala bear is going hungry because Mark wanted a didgeridoo.
What was I going to say?
Oh yeah. My brother, the one that stole all the brains in my family, plays all kinds of musical instruments. One of his several degrees is a music degree, a performance degree. But Mark is a corporate lawyer, so he just gets to play his music for fun. An entire room of his house is dedicated to all of the keyboards, instruments, and recording equipment he has. The room is big enough to fit his didgeridoo. He plays his didgeridoo there.
Mark also plays his didgeridoo in church. The first time I ever heard a didgeridoo was when I visited Mark at the downtown Chicago church where he lended his immense talent to the worship band. We sang ‘Amazing Grace’ with didgeridoo accompaniment. If you have never heard a didgeridoo, it sounds like a mother whale searching for it’s lost baby whale (I would think it’s pretty hard for a whale to get lost, but humor me here). The sound is very sorrowful, a low pitched and sorrowful moan.
That’s how it sounds. Trust me. It does.
♫ Amaaaazingggg grace, how sweet the sound ♫
♫ That saved a wretch like me ♫
By that point, I was already feeling a bit wretched. Not about to retch, but wretched. I got to say ‘didgeridoo’, ‘wretch’, and ‘retch’ in one blog. Cool.
♫ I once was lost, but now am found ♫
♫ Was blind but now I seeeeeeee ♫
The congregation sang all of the verses, accompanied by the haunting moan of Mark’s didgeridoo, including the “when we’ve been there ten thousand years BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa” verse. From that day on, I hear the didgeridoo in my head every time I sing ‘Amazing Grace’, possibly due to the BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa still bouncing around the expanse inside my head.
Mark showed his didgeridoo to his daughter’s kindergarten class the other day. They are learning about Australia, Anna’s teacher heard that Mark has an awesome didgeridoo, and she wanted to see it. He obliged. All of the children sang ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ while he played the didgeridoo. OK, maybe not, but that seems mildly funny so I threw that into this story. All of the children were fascinated by the instrument, a bit disappointed that Mark is a pale white man instead of an aborigine, and they all got a chance to make the instrument go BWWWaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Anna was enthralled, as you can see by the picture.
I wonder if Mark uses the didgeridoo to help lull Anna to sleep each night while Mel, his wife, sings to her.
♫ Luuuulllllabbyyyy and good night ♫